What Have I Done?
by Broken-Latin
Summary: John has to give Sherlock up or face the consequences. Johnlock.


What Have I Done?

John sighed, knocking on the door of Mycroft's office. He didn't really have the right to complain about it—he'd gotten in the car knowing its destination—but he didn't want to be there.

"Come in, Dr. Watson."

John didn't even question how he knew it was him. He had grown to understand that Mycroft just knew things, and that cameras were only partially to blame. He stepped inside and was greeted with a smile that seemed too warm for the Ice Man.

"Good afternoon, John. Please, take a seat."

John sat in the cushioned seat across from Mycroft's desk. "Why am I here this time?"

"John, I have identified a problem with my younger brother." He'd suspected that much. "And with you."

John shook his head. Of course. He was always a problem to someone. It was only a matter of time until it was Mycroft who found him a burden. "What's wrong?"

"As I have told Sherlock many times, caring is not an advantage. You, John, are getting in the way of that principal."

"What are you talking about?" He knew exactly what Mycroft was talking about.

"Don't act like you don't know. You've been seeing him. And I know your plans for tonight," Mycroft said with a scowl.

John was quiet, trying to play dumb. Maybe Mycroft would fall for it. Probably not. But everyone else seemed to think he was stupid, so he figured he was pretty good at the act.

"Empty your pockets."

John did as he was told, placing the contents of his pockets on the desk. Mycroft grabbed a little velvet box. "Don't touch that," John hissed in a warning tone he usually reserved for murder suspects.

"I'll do as I please." He held the box in his palm. "It is a very nice ring. I'm sure it cost quite a lot. However, I'm afraid I cannot let you use it. It is not in Sherlock's best interest to get married."

"Mycroft," he said, his eyes darkening, "Since when do you know what's best for him?"

"Don't be ignorant. You are putting him at an obvious disadvantage. You do him no good by snogging and showering him with affections."

John scowled, snatching the box out of Mycroft's hands and grabbing his wallet. "You should keep your nose out of business that doesn't concern you."

"This _does_ concern me. He's my brother. I know what's best."

"I'm not just going to give up and leave him. He has a heart and he deserves love every bit as much as the next person."

"Deserving as he may be, it is not what's good for him. I will make it very worth your while to quit seeing him the way you do now."

"I don't want your money." John wouldn't just sell his affection like some piece of scum. He had loyalties, and Sherlock was one of them.

Mycroft's lips twisted into a smirk that sent a chill down John's spine. "No, but I'm sure you appreciate the life you have and would not like it to come crashing down around you, bit by bit."

The blood drained from John's face. Mycroft had the power to do that and more. "You won't do a damn thing."

"Oh, but I will. Choose your steps wisely, John."

With those words hanging between them, Anthea appeared to escort John out of the building.

John was welcomed home with a smile. "Good evening, John."

The man's stomach twisted. Mycroft would be watching his every move. That man could take his whole life and crush it in the palm of his hand. He could take Sherlock away. That would bring him to a mental breakdown. Breaking Sherlock's heart and trying to live with him afterword would be absolute hell. But not seeing him at all would be far worse.

John stepped toward him and took Sherlock's hand in his.

Sherlock smiled, grabbing it eagerly.

The doctor rested his forehead against Sherlock's for a moment before lightly kissing his mess of curls. "I can't do this anymore, Sherlock. I'm sorry." A tear escaped his eye and rolled down his cheek. The detective's grip tightened on his hand. "I am so sorry."

"John. . ." Sherlock's voice was high and tight in disbelief.

"I'm so sorry." John tore his hand away and made like mad for his room, locking the door behind him. He collapsed onto his bed, sobbing.

Soon enough, Sherlock was rapping at his door. "John!" No reply. "John, please." His voice was small and weak. He fell to the ground leaning against the door, sobs racking his body so violently that his head hit the door with each inhale. Sherlock Holmes was broken, his heart shattered.

John bit his lip to keep from crying out in anguish, tears running onto his pillow. _What have I done?_

_._

_._

_._

A/N:

I am so sorry. This is awful. Never allow me to write during a math class. This is what happens.

_The author of this fic is not to be held accountable for any nosebleeds, feels, or fangirl squealing that may result of this story._


End file.
